To him, and to the big game animals he was in charge of, spring was a particularly cruel natural joke: a season created and devised to remind living beings that things were often not what they seemed and that they had no real power or influence over it no matter how well educated, technologically advanced, or intuitive they had become. It was a season designed to remind the living that it wasn’t safe to presume anything.
Dawn.
He entered the house as silently as he could, taking off his Sorel packs in the mudroom and exchanging them for his fleece slippers, hanging his parka, muddy Wranglers, and red chamois shirt on the nail in exchange for his robe, and tossing his Stetson onto the closet shelf.
It was Sunday, and it was his job to make pancakes.
He had left the house very early in response to a cellular telephone request from the campground, where the Defenders of Nature group had called him in a panic to report that “a hyped-up black or grizzly bear” was rooting around their tents. He had responded and arrived at the camp and quickly determined that the bear was actually a moose and that the moose was gone. The Defenders of Nature were dissatisfied with his conclusion, and they had tried to convince him that the snuffling sounds they had heard around their dome tents meant danger and not mere curiosity, but with a flashlight Joe had shown them the moose hoofprints and the still-steaming moose excrement near the fire pit, evidence that had led to his determination. The Defenders were outraged at the sudden heavy snow, and they seemed to blame Joe for it since he was a local. The Defenders—based in Arlington, Virginia, and encamped for nearly two weeks to monitor Miller’s weasel recovery efforts and wholly suspicious of anybody or anything local (this was, after all, the backward land of miners, loggers, ranchers, developers, and hunters)—had grudgingly accepted Joe’s hypothesis and had returned to their $800 sleeping bags.
With a whisk, Joe mixed eggs, flour, baking soda, and buttermilk into a bowl. He tested all of the heating elements to make sure the ones he replaced were now working. He greased the cast-iron skillet and set it on the stove to warm up.
Once the remains of the Miller’s weasels had been confirmed, just about everything that Vern Dunnegan had predicted would happen was taking place in the mountains of Twelve Sleep County.
A moratorium on any kind of activity or recreation was quickly handed down by federal judges following scores of faxed legal briefs by dozens of environmental groups. Friend of the Court briefs appeared from organizations headquartered in Europe, Canada, Greenland, and Asia. The listing of Miller’s weasels as an endangered species was petitioned for and granted in record time. The God Squad was convened to ram it through. Biologists, scientists, journalists, and environmentalists descended on Saddlestring, occupying every hotel and motel room as well as the campgrounds. Teams of agents from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service helicoptered in to the site of the killing field and beyond, and they soon discovered two more small colonies of Miller’s weasels. Studies showed that the creatures had, in fact, evolved from subsisting almost entirely on buffalo to a diet of primarily elk. One of the colonies was dubbed the Cold Springs Group and the other the Timberline Group and the names became well-known in the media. Several networks broadcast the find live via satellite trucks during the evening news. It was, by one celebrity reporter’s account, the “feel-good story of the year.”
The heads of the Environmental Protection Agency and Department of Interior flew into the Saddlestring Airport in Air Force Two and were photographed sneaking up on the Cold Springs Group with binoculars. Television viewers delighted in videotaped footage of Miller’s weasels standing upright and chirping on their dens with their backs to one another. The Wyoming legislature, after a nasty floor fight, declared the Miller’s weasel the “Official Endangered Species of Wyoming,” beating out grizzly bears, Wyoming toads, and transplanted wolves.
Joe worked very hard to avoid being interviewed by anyone. The murder of the outfitters, the injuries and threats to his family, the death of Clyde Lidgard, and the arrests of Wacey and Vern were treated as sidebar stories that had led to the discovery of the Miller’s weasels—if they were mentioned at all.
One of the colonies, the Timberline Group, which was made up of 18 Miller’s weasels, died out literally in front of the cameras, and a nation mourned their loss. Autopsies revealed that the animals had contracted a viral infection, probably from one of the researcher’s dogs. The Cold Springs Group declined from 28 animals to 13 for no traceable cause. A debate was raging whether the remaining Miller’s weasels should be transplanted to a breeding facility or left alone. Biologists were in a dither over what to do. An additional 80 square miles were added to the newly designated Miller’s Weasel Ecosystem. Everyone had an opinion, including the Wyoming Game and Fish Department, which was fighting in the courts for “custody” of the remaining animals.
The Saddlestring Roundup newspaper estimated that the discovery of the Miller’s weasels had resulted in at least 400 local jobs lost in the lumber, grazing, agriculture, and recreation industries. Every day there were stories of families who were simply dropping off their house keys at the bank as they left town.
The trials for Vern Dunnegan and Wacey Hedeman had been postponed until summer. The rumor in town was that they had turned on each other and each was willing to implicate the other for every count of the charges. Vern had become a kind of far-right-wing media darling and was often interviewed in his cell talking about the Endangered Species Act. He was so glib and so capable of usable sound bites that his opinions were quoted by both sides of environmental controversies.
Wacey, however, had been shunned. A story leaked out from the federal detention facility in Cheyenne that Wacey had attacked a group of prisoners who were chiding him about his former profession and his new handicap and referring to him as “The Lone Arm of the Law.”
Assistant Director Les Etbauer resigned from the Wyoming Game and Fish Department the day after Vern was arrested. The official statement from the department was that Etbauer had committed a serious lack of judgment when he suspended Joe Pickett and that Warden Pickett’s position had been restored immediately with no further action required. There was even a commendation and a small increase in salary for Joe. Etbauer was then immediately hired as a consultant to the governor to serve as a liaison between the state and various federal land management agencies. Sheriff O. R. “Bud” Barnum won reelection with 87 percent of the vote with the remaining 13 percent going to write-in candidates that included pets, Marshal Matt Dillon, and two votes for Joe Pickett.
Joe had followed the news reports of how the pipeline that InterWest Resources had been building was capped and abandoned 50 miles from the western slope of the Bighorn Mountains. Despite congressional investigations, no credible evidence had been found linking InterWest with the webs Vern had spun on their behalf. InterWest eventually merged with CanCal to help build a single natural gas pipeline to Southern California, but market conditions were such that analysts were predicting that the project might be put on hold for years.
Marybeth came in from her walk with an armful of Sunday newspapers. She planned to start taking Maxine with her again in a couple of months, once she had built up her strength. Now though, she was walking with the aid of a cane and with a painful limp. The rigors of holding the Labrador back were too much for her. Marybeth’s progress from wheelchair to walker to crutches to assisted walking on her own had all occurred before the doctors had said it would be possible. They marveled at her strength—and at her will. A full recovery was predicted. Joe had never doubted it.
Once they had moved back into the house from the Eagle Mountain Club, Missy Vankeuran had fled back to Arizona, saying she was needed to lend support for her new husband’s run for the U.S. Senate.
There were now three children at the table for pancakes. Sheridan, now eight, and Lucy, now four, shared the table and the family with April Keeley, their foster child. It had been Marybeth’s idea, and she had pursued it, even while she was in
the wheelchair, after she had learned that Jeannie Keeley, Ote’s widow, had left the county after she had given birth, taking only the baby with her. The youngest child had died of pneumonia. April, the sick child Joe had seen at the Keeley’s home, had been left behind in Saddlestring. She was between Sheridan’s and Lucy’s ages, and she was slowly discovering that she could trust both of them. Marybeth had explained to Joe that April Keeley, likely to be a bundle of problems, would be the focus of all of the love and mothering that had been stored in her for the new baby. April was beginning to open up to Marybeth and Joe, although she was painfully shy and ashamed of her situation. Marybeth spent hours with her. Lucy was of course a little jealous, but Sheridan seemed to understand.
During the first month and a half when Marybeth returned home from the hospital, the situation had been difficult for all of them. Joe, Marybeth, and Sheridan had all been through separate but connected ordeals. Marybeth focused her hate on Vern Dunnegan, and Sheridan raged about Wacey Hedeman. Marybeth tried to explain to Joe how she felt about losing a child, how the feeling would never go away, how she would forever blame herself as a mother for allowing it to happen. There were many long nights when Joe held Marybeth while she cried. There were other nights when he held Sheridan.
Joe knew that he would never really fathom the depths of feelings both Marybeth and Sheridan had about what had happened. All he could do, he concluded, was what he did: be there and listen.
Joe had become concerned that both of them would be bitter, but it hadn’t happened. Instead, they had become even closer as a family.
After breakfast, Joe and Sheridan put the remaining pancakes and bacon into a sack and went outside into the backyard. They walked around the house and sat in two lawn chairs facing the back of the garage. The morning had become warm, and the sun was out. Yesterday’s snow was already melting. Muscular rivulets of runoff rushed down the Sandrock draw.
Sheridan broke off pieces of the pancakes and bacon and scattered them on the ground near the foundation of the garage. Joe cut up a couple of small chunks of meat from the haunch of a road-killed cow elk he had stored in the freezer and tossed them out. It didn’t take long for the Miller’s weasels to zip out of their den and clean up the food. Joe and Sheridan exchanged conspiratorial smiles while they watched.
There was a good reason why the Miller’s weasels had moved from the woodpile to the roomy cavern beneath the garage. It turned out that, while Sheridan had been right about Lucky being a male and Hippity-Hop being a female, she was wrong about their “son,” Elway. This spring, Elway had produced 10 babies (Joe had learned from the biologists in the canyon that the young were called “kits”), and eight had survived.
The kits were fascinating to watch because, although they were a quarter the size of their parents, they were just as fast when they shot out from beneath the foundation, grabbed food in their forepaws, and flashed back into the den. When Joe pointed a flashlight into the den, the weasels were a mass of writhing, chirping, long, brown bodies equally annoyed at the intrusion. The kits would sometimes come out into the sun and try to stand on their hind legs like their parents, and Joe and Sheridan would laugh as the kits would lose their balance, fall over, and scramble upright again until they could hold the famous pose.
“They’re getting big,” Sheridan said, nodding at the kits and tossing small pieces of food.
“Yes they are,” Joe replied.
“Dad, what do you suppose would happen if anyone found out about these little guys?” Sheridan asked. He could tell she had been contemplating the question for a while. Joe had been amazed when Sheridan told him the entire story about the weasels, and she and Joe had promised each other not to tell anyone. As far as anyone knew, the Miller’s weasels that Ote Keeley had brought down the mountain with him had died in the woodpile fire, just as Wacey said they had.
“Well, I don’t know for sure,” Joe answered. “I’m pretty certain that what we’re doing isn’t legally the right thing. There’s some biologists who would go berserk if they found out. A lot of other people, too.”
“But aren’t they the people who are at the colonies where the Miller’s weasels keep dying?” Sheridan asked.
Joe chuckled. “That’s them,” Joe said.
Sheridan dutifully scattered the remains of the food near the den.
“You’re doing this for me, aren’t you?” Sheridan asked.
Joe nodded. “Yup.”
Sheridan settled back into the lawn chair.
“You know, Dad, these critters remind me of our family,” Sheridan said. “They were in great danger, and now they’re doing okay. They’re a family again.”
Joe nodded. This was the kind of conversation that made him uncomfortable.
“We’re sort of like them, aren’t we, Dad?”
Joe reached over and squeezed Sheridan’s hand. “Sheridan, sometimes we see things in animals that aren’t really there. It’s called transference, if that makes any sense.”
Sheridan was studying him now. “That’s okay, isn’t it?” she asked.
“As long as we admit it to ourselves, I think it’s okay,” Joe said. “I think there are a lot of people who say they do things for animals when they’re really doing it for themselves. They see things in animals that might not really be there. I think sometimes that hurts the animals in the end, and it hurts other people, too.”
Sheridan thought it over. “Transference,” she repeated.
“There are people on both sides of the issue who think animals are more valuable than people are,” Joe said. “That’s what’s happening here.”
Joe stopped speaking. He thought maybe he had said too much.
Joe was well aware of the fact that by keeping the Miller’s weasels and not reporting their existence, he was breaking more regulations and laws than he could count. And he knew that what he was planning to do with the creatures could probably land him in a federal prison. He could be accused of playing God. It could be construed as scandalous behavior by the Defenders of Nature—an offense worthy of at least a death sentence. He didn’t try to justify his reasons, even to himself. He was playing God, after all. He was making a judgment simply because he thought it was the right one, and one that might somehow benefit his daughter.
“How long can we do this?” Sheridan asked. “Help the Miller’s weasels, I mean.”
“As long as you want to,” Joe said. “As long as you feel it’s important to you.”
“They might be ready in a couple of weeks,” Sheridan said, holding back a tear. She was admitting something. “We probably won’t have any snow after that.”
Joe told her about where he would want to transplant the animals. He had found a small, protected valley high in the Bighorns miles away from roads or trails. The valley lay in a natural elk migration route, and it was filled with mule deer. It was about 10 miles from the perimeter of the Miller’s Weasel Ecosystem.
She sniffed and asked him if she would ever see them again.
“This summer,” Joe promised, “you and I will put the panniers on Lizzie, and we’ll horsepack into the mountains together. I’ll take you to where the weasels are if you promise never to tell anyone about it.”
“Of course, I promise,” she said. “I can keep a secret.”
He laughed. “I know you can.”
And now an exclusive preview of
Savage Run the next Joe Pickett novel
by acclaimed mystery writer C. J. Box
1
Targhee National Forest, Idaho
June 10
On the third day of their honeymoon, infamous environmental activist Stewie Woods and his new bride Annabel Bellotti were spiking trees in the Bighorn National Forest when a cow exploded and blew them up. Until then, their marriage had been happy.
They met by chance. Stewie Woods had been busy pouring bag after bag of sugar and sand into the gasoline tanks of a fleet of pickups that belonged to a natural gas exploration crew in a newly gra
ded parking lot. The crew had left for the afternoon for the bars and hotel rooms of nearby Henry’s Fork. One of the crew had returned unexpectedly and caught Stewie as Stewie was ripping off the top of a bag of sugar with his teeth. The crewmember pulled a 9mm semiautomatic from beneath the dashboard and fired several wild pistol shots in Stewie’s direction. Stewie had dropped the bag and run away, crashing through the timber like a bull elk.
Stewie had outrun and out-juked the man with the pistol and he met Annabel when he literally tripped over her as she sunbathed nude in the grass in an orange pool of late afternoon sun, unaware of his approach because she was listening to Melissa Etheridge on her Walkman’s headphones. She looked good, he thought, strawberry blond hair with a two-day Rocky Mountain fire-engine tan (two hours in the sun at 8,000 feet created a sunburn like a whole day at the beach), small ripe breasts, and a trimmed vector of pubic hair.
He had gathered her up and pulled her along through the timber, where they hid together in a dry spring wash until the man with the pistol gave up and went home. She had giggled while he held her—this was real adventure, she’d said—and he had used the opportunity to run his hands tentatively over her naked shoulders and hips and had found out, happily, that she did not object. They made their way back to where she had been sunbathing and while she dressed, they introduced themselves.
She told him she liked the idea of meeting a famous environmental outlaw in the woods while she was naked, and he appreciated that. She said she had seen his picture before, maybe in Outside Magazine?, and admired his looks—tall and raw-boned, with round rimless glasses, a short-cropped full beard, and his famous red bandana on his head.